Ugh. It’s been a long, miserable day. You hate your job. You’re the only one who cares about doing the job right, but the boss plays favorites and you’re not it, so you get no credit for your hard work. Your co-workers are all idiots who couldn’t give a shit less about doing the job right. The customers are all rude, demanding, entitled assholes. You work your ass off, harder than anybody, trying to pick up your co-workers’ slack, and you get zero appreciation for any of it.
Fuck it. This isn’t worth the stress or the shitty pay. You’re just gonna quit and find a job somewhere else.
You clomp up the steps to your house and stomp to get the snow off your boots, then fumble around trying to get your hand into your pocket, stop to remove your glove, then finally get your keys out so you can open the door. Ugh!
Wait, what’s that?
Something brightly colored and the size of a mouse is huddled up against your door. You bend down and pick it up.
It’s a fluffy foal. Only a few days old. Pale lavender with a soft pink mane and tail, and tiny little wings. Cute. It’s shivering violently and tries to suckle your fingertip.
Poor little thing. Its mother must have abandoned it. You’ve heard that fluffies will often do that in harsh winters, abandon their young to freeze so as to conserve resources and avoid starvation. It’s tragic, but either the mothers let their foals die, or they die along with the foals; at least this way the mothers survive to see warmer weather and produce more foals.
You carry the shivering foal inside and set her in a bowl. You zap some water in the microwave so it gets hot, pour it into a hot water bottle, wrap the bottle in your fuzziest washcloth, and stick that in the bowl under the foal. It huddles on the washcloth, glad for the warmth, and peeps once, sounded pathetic. D’awww.
You go online to look up how to care for fluffy foals, then go to the kitchen to warm up some whole milk, stir in a little sugar, and… hmm. You don’t own any syringes or pipettes. Who the heck just happens to have those lying around the house?
Oh wait, you have an idea.
You go to the bathroom, retrieve an eye dropper from your first aid kit (why is that in there? Literally nothing in the first aid kit is designed to go into your eye.), and take it back to the kitchen.
You scoop up the foal, water bottle, washcloth, and all, from the bowl and place it on your lap. Then you flip it over on its back and it wiggles its legs feebly, cheeping in distress.
“It’s ok, baby, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
A brief inspection tells you it’s probably a girl.
You fill the eye dropper with warm, sweetened milk, and put it to her mouth. The foal shakes her head and tries to push the dropper away with one hoof.
“Here, baby, it’s milk! Drink up!”
She keeps refusing. You accidentally squeeze the eye dropper and a drop of milk comes out, getting all over the foal’s nose and mouth.
k-chew!
Even her sneeze is adorable. She works her mouth and licks, trying to get the wet stuff off her nose, then suddenly seems to realize it’s milk.
“Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! CHIRP!”
“Oh ho, guess you are hungry, then!”
She drains the eye dropper six times before her little belly is full; poor thing must have been starving. You put the eye dropper away and return her to her bowl. She curls up into a fetal position, tiny wings fluttering, then grows still with a contented sigh. She’s asleep.
You tuck her in with another washcloth and smile as you watch the tiny little ball of color sleep; you haven’t felt this idiotically heart-warmed since you were a kid and got your first teddy bear.
You haven’t had a pet in a long time. Yeah, you know what? You’re gonna keep her.
She needs a name. Hmmm… Well, you’ll come up with a name later, you’re not so good with names. For now, you watch the tiny fluffy pony sleep, hugging the wash cloth with her front hooves, tiny wings buzzing every so often, breathing softly. She’s absolutely adorable. Lucky, too. Lucky you came along just then, or she’d have frozen to death. Or starved, if she managed not to freeze. You feel a brief surge of anger at her mother for abandoning her like that; how could anything or anyone just abandon something this precious to die like that? But your anger fades almost immediately and is replaced by sadness. It’s the harsh reality of survival. She probably had to abandon the baby just to ensure she didn’t starve herself. The little foal sure is lucky you came along just then.
That’s it, she’s lucky. Her name is Lucky now.
You gently scratch her head with a fingertip and her ears twitch, but she doesn’t wake up. You should let her rest. She’s earned it.
You’re mummah. You shiver as you trot through cold whitey stuff that comes up to your chest and your teefies chatter. Your babbeh peeps on your back, not liking the cold.
“Mummah sowwy, wastest babbeh! Mummah nu wike cowd eithew! Babbeh be wawm soon, nu wowwy!”
The monsters found the warm place and killed the rest of the herd. They took your other babbehs and did horrible things to them. But you saved this babbeh, the widdwest babbeh, and ran away. You could hear our other babbehs screaming for you to save them, but you ran away. You knew you could do nothing to save them. Your mummah took wongest sweepies trying to save your bwuddas and sistas a long time ago, and only you remain. You know fluffies can do nothing against hoomin munstas. So you ran.
Now you have no warm place. No special friend to help you find nummies. Just your wastest babbeh.
“Huuhuuu, cowd! Nu wowwy babbeh, mummah… mummah fine wawm pwace!”
You hurry through the cold whitey stuff as fast as you can, which isn’t very fast since it’s so deep. You’re deeply worried; it’s too cold for babbehs. You also haven’t had nummies in a long time; you had just fed the other babbehs right before the monsters came, so you’re not sure you have miwkies for your wastest babbeh. You need nummies so you can make more miwkies for her.
But first things first; you need to find a warm place.
“Nu wowwy babbeh… wawm soon…”
Even you don’t believe it. Your babbeh peeps weakly on your back.
Out of desperation, you take a shortcut through an area where hoomin munstas roam, shivering in the chill wind. You need to get out of this wind, the cold will hurt your babbeh!
You spot a sheltered area, out of the wind, but it’s one of the placest where the hoomin munstas live. You stand there, indecisive, for a long time. The weak, almost inaudible chirp coming from the fluff on your back makes your decision for you.
It’s dangerous, but your babbeh needs shelter.
Struggling up the steps, you get up out of the cold whitey stuff and deposit the babbeh in the corner by the door-thing. It shivers and lays there.
“Hewe, babbeh, mummah gif miwkies, hewp babbeh stay stwong.”
You lay down on your side between your babbeh and the wind and push her to your miwkie places. She’s unresponsive at first, but then tries to suckle. Your hope dies almost as soon as it rose to life; you have no miwkies. Your babbeh chirps once in disappointment, then lays down and shivers.
“Sowwy babbeh, mummah nu haf nummies, nu can make miwkies. Hewe, mummah keep babbeh wawm.”
You curl up around her, wrapping your tail around both of you for warmth, and shiver. Even buried deep in your fluff, you can tell your babbeh is cold. You’re cold too. She needs miwkies. You know without miwkies she’ll take the longest sweepies. You need to find nummies so you can make miwkies. But… she’s too little; if you take her with you, the meanie cold will get her. Your special friend is gone now; he can’t find nummies and bring them back to you. And you have no warm place to leave her while you find nummies.
You’re not happy about it, not at all, but you have no choice. Reluctantly, you uncurl from around your wastest babbeh and leave her shivering on the ground.
“Sowwy babbeh, mummah nee fine nummies fow make miwkies. Mummah be back soon, gif babbeh miwkies and huggies. Wuv yoo, babbeh.”
You watch her shivering, trying to curl up into her own, thin and inadequate fluff, then reluctantly trot down the stairs into the cold whitey stuff again. There are tears in your eyes.
But luck is with you; you have found nummies, good nummies! They’re still warm from being thrown away. You gobble it all down as fast as you can, feeling a little warmer from the nummies in your belly, then wade through the cold whitey stuff as fast as you can to get back to your babbeh. Poor babbeh, wastest babbeh; her daddeh and bwuddas and sistas all gone. She has to be cold and shivery, and so hungry, and alone. You have to hurry back so she can have miwkies and snuggle in your fluff to stay warm.
Oh no! The cold whitey stuff is falling faster and faster! You try running faster, but it’s so deep you’re having trouble moving at all! You have to get back to your babbeh! She needs you!
There! That’s where you left your wastest babbeh! You’re almost there!
But suddenly, a metal munsta comes roaring up and stops right in front of where you left your babbeh! You hide behind a big box thing and shiver, hoping it doesn’t see you. A hoomin munsta gets out, saying all kinds of mean, angry things!
“I should just quit! Screw that place.”
Brrr! So cold! Poor babbeh, she must be so cold and lonely… but you can’t get to her, not with the munsta there. You have to wait. Oh no! The munsta is headed right toward your babbeh!
The munsta stomps up the steps, you hear an odd jingle-jangle noise, and then the door shuts. It’s gone! You hurry through the cold whitey stuff as it gets deeper and deeper, trying to get to your wastest babbeh. She didn’t chirp or scream, and the monster didn’t make his angry be-meanie-to-fluffies words, so he must not have seen her! You struggle up the steps, shivering violently, feeling numb in your earsies and hoofsies, and reach where you left your babbeh.
She’s not there! No! No no no!
You search all around frantically, but there’s no sign of your babbeh anywhere!
You start to panic, but then you calm down. It’s ok. The munsta didn’t get your babbeh, but she isn’t here. That must mean you’re in the wrong place. You fight your way down the steps and through the cold whitey stuff again, and check the next hoomin place. No babbeh. Now you’re starting to panic again.
“Babbeh? Babbeh! Mummah hewe! Whewe awe yoo, babbeh? Mummah hewe! Babbeh! Babbeh? Baaaaaabbeh!”
You check every hoomin place you can get to, frantic to find your wastest babbeh. She’s all you have left in the world. And she’s… she’s GONE.
A munsta got her after all.
You lay down in the cold whitey stuff and tears start staining your fluff.
“Huuuhuuu, babbeh! Baaaaaabbeeeeeh! Huu! Mummah am wowstest mummah EFEW! Huuuhuuuhuuuuu! Babbeh! Mummah sowwy, babbeh! BABBEH! BAAAAAAAAAAAABBEEEEEEEEEEH! Huuu, huuhuuuhuuuuuuu! Babbeh! Mummah wuv yoo, babbeh! BABBEEEEH! Huuu…”
You shiver and curl up in the cold whitey stuff, feeling numb all over. Your babbeh. Your precious, wastest babbeh. So pretty. And you failed her. You couldn’t give her miwkies, you couldn’t keep her warm, you couldn’t even find her. And you ran away and left your other babbehs to get longest sweepies from munstas. You heard them crying and screaming for you to save them, and you ran away. You’re the worstest mummah ever.
“Wan die.”
You’re Lucky’s owner. She’s still pint-sized, since your attempt at feeding her proved nutritionally inadequate compared to her mother’s milk, but she’s otherwise healthy and happy. She’s now roughly a month old, and fast on her way to becoming an adult fluffy.
“Wuv yoo, daddeh!”
“I love you too, Lucky. Be a good girl while daddy’s at work.”
“Otay!”
You lock the door behind you and walk down the steps to your car. The snow is finally melting, revealing the things it concealed, such as your mailbox and a dead fluffy, frozen solid on the sidewalk in front of the neighbor’s house. You barely glance at it, noticing no resemblance between its purple fluff with orange mane and tail and your own fluffy’s light purple and pink coloration.
You get in your car and head to work.
